


Snapping Bands

by CMMLovr



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMMLovr/pseuds/CMMLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Once upon a time, this worked for me. You snap the band on your wrist when your thoughts and feelings overwhelm you.”</p><p>Snapshots from Stella's past leading up to her suggestion to Annie Brawley in the first episode of series 2. Each chapter will be an individual snapshot, not entirely chronological.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sixteen

Silence fills the air; nothing to be heard but the steady strumming of an elastic band, snapping violently against a wrist again and again. Then a sniffle; the sound of a hand desperately scrubbing at a face, before returning ruthlessly to the band. She sits quietly, her blonde hair thrown carelessly over one shoulder, her legs crossed. Beneath her, a single mussed sheet on an otherwise bare mattress. Her fingers continuously pluck at the band, snapping it against her pallid wrist. Nestled in an overlarge button down shirt, she stares absently at the blank wall in front of her, her eyes cold but filled with tears.

“Stella! Are you dressed yet?”

Her uncle’s call shatters the silence she’s so enjoying. Sniffling quietly to herself, Stella scrubs underneath her eyes once more for good measure before standing to slam her bedroom door. Returning to her post on the bed, Stella awaits her uncle’s usual reaction. He doesn’t disappoint. Thunderous footsteps storm up the stairs, and Stella barely flinches as her uncle barges into her room. After the first hundred times, the action loses its gravity – loses its effect on her.

“Stella!” her uncle calls loudly, his head whipping around. “Oh- there you are,” he drawls, as she catches sight of her niece, clad only in her father’s cotton shirt. He takes a moment to stare her up and down nonchalantly before recommencing with whatever it was he’d stormed in to say. “Come now, Stella, you’ve got to go back to school today – it’s what your dad would've wanted.” Her uncle’s voice is quiet, attempting reassurance, but falling flat at coercion. It’s not the first time he’s come barging in on her, only half dressed. It’s also not the first time he’s attempted this argument. There’s an undercurrent of disdain somewhere there, as though he wants to believe that Stella is still grieving her father, but also thinks that, as a teenager, she should have already gotten over the death. He just wants Stella out of the house – away from his own, younger children who don’t need a moody older cousin casting a dark shadow on their ignorant ‘play-time’.

Stella remains silent, glaring at her uncle’s legs as she continues to snap the band – again and again. She hadn’t wanted to come back – had even been told by Trish that she wouldn't have to. But in the end, her aunt’s (her mother’s sister) next of kin status won out, and Stella hadn’t been able to stay away.

 Snap the band and control the pain. Snap the band, again and again. She moans quietly – that last snap had hurt her more than she’d intended. She looks down at the angry red mark blistering her white wrist. It seems to be surrounded by its brethren – other red marks of her creation. Even her pain is not alone. Even her pain has company, unlike her.

 She continues to snap the band against her wrist, meditating the fact that she only has two more years of living with her aunt and uncle (but especially her uncle) before she’s considered an adult. Until then, Stella is learning to deal with everything that has happened (and continues to happen) to her. Since her rescue by Trish a couple of months ago, she’s been talking to someone about... _stuff_. At first, it had been difficult to open up – she hadn't wanted to talk – didn't think she needed to. Now, Stella’s been labelled a _victim,_ and the word leaves a nasty taste in her mouth. It reeks of vulnerability, of brokenness. Grinding her teeth, Stella refuses to conform to the label society would give her _if they knew._ She has to be _the best,_ to correct the image that the label suggests. No weakness, no vulnerability. Just pure, feminine strength.

 “Stella, I’m not going to say it again. You’re going to be downstairs and dressed in half an hour, alright?” warns her uncle, a threatening growl entering his voice.

Stella narrows her eyes peevishly. Her uncle doesn’t understand. How can he know what _he_ would've wanted? How can anyone? How can her uncle demand _anything_ from her?! How can he know that her father would’ve wanted her to continue with her education? How can he think that _he_ wanted _anything?_ I mean, _he_ had just _left_ her – abandoned her without a second thought!

 _Snap_.

Snap the band to control the pain. Snap the band, again and again.

Turning on his heel, her uncle leaves Stella’s room, allowing her to continue her silent vigil with a grunt. Sighing, Stella realises that while she doesn’t know what her father would’ve wanted – _snap! –_ she knows what _she_ wants. She wants out of her uncle’s grasp as quickly and neatly as possible. No muss, no fuss. _Snap._ While she’s in pain right now and her mind still clouds over with thoughts of her father, sometimes, she knows that her ticket out of here is to be _the best._ For so long, she wanted it to make _him_ proud, but now she only wants it for herself. And fuck knows, she’ll do it.

Removing the band from her wrist, Stella deftly ties her hair up before wriggling into a skirt that she tucks her father’s shirt into. Gazing at herself in the bedroom mirror, Stella steels her features, knowing what her day will bring. She barely affords a glance towards the duvet and pillow that lie scattered on the bedroom floor, mingling with the mussed sheet that hangs from a single corner of the mattress. They are just evidence of the night she’s had – an altogether shit night that will probably be followed by a shittier day. But, she still needs to _look_ like she’s okay, if she’s to be _the best._

She repeats the mantra to herself: Stella Gibson is _strong._ Stella Gibson _doesn’t care._ Stella Gibson lets _nothing_ faze her.

 _Snap!_ The band falls from her hair – a consequence of overstretching. Perhaps it would be better if she left her hair down, after all. It’s not like she particularly minds what she looks like, but her hair had always been… _he_ ’d always liked her hair. A soft smile lights her lips – a minute quirk that seems to set her eyes ablaze. Reaching for the dresser, she pulls a band from her wooden box that sits beside her brand new leather-bound journal and snaps it firmly onto her wrist.

‘ _No one else need know what the band is for_ ,’ she reminds herself. She can carry it with her while she’s at school – can still project calm and collected while she snaps away whenever something eats at her.

She is Stella Gibson, and she can fight this.


	2. Fourteen

“Stella Gibson?”

His tone is polite, quiet – reassuring. He wants to build rapport; even Stella can recognise that at fourteen. He wants her to feel safe, when she feels nothing of the sort. Having spent the last hour or so searching desperately for her father, the fact that Stella has somehow managed to find a police officer in lieu of her dad does not bode well for her. Still, she doesn’t want to make any assumptions: that would be careless.

“Yes,” she replies crisply, wanting to cut through the niceties of this conversation and move straight to the pertinent information. Stella wants to know where her father is.

“Stella, do you want to sit down?” His partner looks at the smallish girl with concern, offers her hand to Stella when she seems to retreat into herself.

“Fine.”

Stella is motionless, waiting silently for whatever the police officers have to tell her. She doesn’t particularly care about why they’re there so much as why her father _isn’t._ It takes a second for Stella to cut through her own stupidity: the police are there _because_ her father isn’t. Something’s happened to him. Suddenly, her attention is much keener – she waits patiently, hoping that her dad’s fine; that the fact that he’s not here is just a coincidence, and the police are here about a separate incident.

“Stella, where have you been for the last hour?” the female police officer asks the questions now, having realised that she had not reacted well to her male partner.

 _‘Maybe,´_ thinks Stella, _‘they thought I’d run away.’_

“I was looking for my dad. Where is he?” she replies tonelessly, numb from the realisation that the appearance of the police and the seeming disappearance of her father can’t mean anything good, but hoping against hope that they’re just here because she all but disappeared about an hour ago.

“Ah, well. Do you have any family close-by, sweetheart?” her tone is maternal as she fixes a concerned gaze on the surprisingly stoic child.

The term of endearment irritates Stella immensely – she is nobody’s sweetheart, especially not a stranger’s. Still, she allows it to roll smoothly over her – so long as she finds out what’s happened to her father, she doesn’t care what this police officer calls her. “My aunt lives about half an hour away – she’s my mother’s sister.” A brief flash of anger situates itself in Stella’s chest at the thought of her mother, but she forces it away. She has more important things to think about, right now.

“What about your mum, lovely?” asks the male police officer as he situates his gaze at eye-level with Stella’s eyes.

“What about her?” responds Stella coldly, the smallest undertone of irritation entering her voice.

“So, your aunt,” continues the female police officer, sensing the open hostility in Stella’s voice (her mother would be a question for another day). “We’re going to call her here for you, okay?”

“Sure. What happened to my dad?” Stella’s voice becomes small – the only true indication thus far of her age.

The partners look at each other heavily, weighing up the decision of breaking the news to the child now, when she’s unaccompanied by an adult. Sensing their tension, Stella looks expectantly at them, waiting patiently and not pushing them. Heaving a sigh, the male police officer stands, motioning to his partner that he’s going to call Stella’s aunt. Sitting opposite Stella, his partner grits her teeth before moving to sit next to Stella on the sofa, angling her body supportively towards the small fourteen year old.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Stella,” she says gently, her kind eyes meeting Stella’s sympathetically. Stella doesn’t move, her gaze never leaving the police officer’s as she waits for her to continue. “We found your dad in his study a little while ago and – Stella, your dad died this afternoon.” Like ripping off a band-aid. She delivers the news quickly, waiting for Stella’s reaction – unprepared to deal with it because the child hadn’t reacted to anything in the way she’d expected her to.

Numbness steals over Stella’s frame. Her dad is gone, just like her mother. Only, her dad had to be more permanent – how typical, he always had to outdo her mother. Her eyes glaze over as she realises for the first of many times that she is all alone. She has no one left who will truly care about her – and judging by her father’s death, she hasn’t for a while. Otherwise, why would he have died and left her? Heaviness grips her heart, and she sinks slowly into the sofa, ignoring the police officer’s attempt to comfort her. She doesn’t feel like crying. She doesn’t need to be comforted. She needs to swim.

Beside her, the police officer remains at a loss. Though visibly shaking, little Stella hadn’t said a word. Her heart aches for the poor child - and she thinks sadly of how much worse this news will be with the added blow that her father had committed suicide. He had chosen to leave his only daughter – and if the note was any indication, his only reason for it had been the recent ‘life changes’ that she assumed his daughter would know about. She sighs heavily and attempts to put her arms around Stella, whose eyes seem to have started to tear up.

“I need to swim,” she announces thickly after some time.

“I’m sorry, love?” asks the police officer, thinking that she’s misheard the child.

“I need to swim. Now,” she enunciates, clearing her throat from the tears that threaten to fall. If there’s one thing that Stella’s learnt in her short life, it’s that tears and signs of vulnerability get you _nowhere._ Standing straight from the sofa and delicately shaking away the maternal arms of the police officer, Stella dashes to her room upstairs. She shuts her door carefully behind her, packing a bag with her essentials – school books, swimming gear, clothes and her hair and tooth brushes. It’s not that far of a jump, from her bedroom window, onto the roof of the garage and finally onto the garden lawn.

There’s no way in hell that Stella was going to allow herself to live with her aunt; a woman who, for all intents and purposes, is just her mother’s carbon-copy in all mannerisms and attitudes. Nor would she find respite with her uncle, if previous family gatherings had been any indication of his behaviour around her. Shuddering slightly, Stella dashes away from her home, knowing the direction she needs to move to reach the pool. She needs to swim – needs the familiar feeling of bitingly cold water to clear her head as she all but drowns in her own thoughts. She needs to be as far away from her aunt and uncle as possible.

No, Stella’s better off alone, and acknowledges this fact coldly, forbidding emotion from entering her decision to leave.

She’s better off alone.


	3. Fifteen

Shivers rock her slender frame as she gasps, the shock of icy air hitting her muscles before being submerged in only marginally warmer water causing trembles to force their way down her spine. Her hand hits the surface of the water, slicing through into its depths as she propels her body forwards. At fifteen, she’s been training this way for quite a while – has gotten used to the therapeutic way the water assaults her skin but laps mesmerizingly against it in the same instant. The training keeps her alive, as she fights her way through the water at the same time that she fights the battle in her mind. Some battles are easier than others, she muses as she slices through the water’s surface with ease. Internally, she struggles with thoughts of her father and the lingering grief that memories of him evoke. Her hand meets the water more violently on the next stroke, the physical action impacting the emotional reaction. It’s catharsis – it’s healthy: it’s her salvation. Tumbling onto her back, Stella exhales a flurry of bubbles, enjoying the disruption she causes to the water’s surface. She enjoys the contrast between the water’s calm depths and the constant movement of its surface. She especially enjoys the way the water moves around her as she manipulates it. Stella enjoys being in control.

Pushing off the wall steadily, Stella accelerates her kick, hyping her stroke into a sprint as she pushes herself completely – losing herself in the perfection of a timed sprint. Having completed her fifty metre sprint, she glances nonchalantly at the pool-side clock, secretly thrilled that her time is faster now than it ever was. Not that she’s particularly concerned about athletics, but it’s always good to _improve._ Smiling lightly, she tugs the cap and goggles off her head in a fluid motion, dunking her hair under the water briefly for no other reason than to feel the water’s cool currents flowing on her scalp. Rolling her shoulders, Stella hoists herself out from the pool’s depths, coming up on her knees by the poolside as she gathers her training gear in her bag. This is what she lives for – a long swim after a trying day. This is also what she’d been deprived of, living at her aunt’s. Nobody has time for her athletic needs. Nobody has time for her (other than _him._ But he always wants _something_ from her). So she makes time for herself, and she does so by excluding others from her time. Namely, her aunt.

Striding over to the showers, Stella allows herself to relax in the shower’s steam. Untying her hair, she shakes her blonde locks out under the spray, massaging the smallest bit of soap into them before rinsing once more. She stands for a moment, enjoying the tendrils of water that meander down her body – a cleansing caress. Having cleaned herself satisfactorily, Stella moves to the changing rooms and divests herself of her soaking swimsuit, changing instead into a pair of jeans and her dad’s old button-up, now looking quite threadbare. She shrugs on the tired shirt wearily, smiling at how the softness seems to envelope her body, remembering the way her dad would hold her when she was younger. Wearing his shirt is almost like being in his embrace once more, and Stella savours every minute of it before the usual clenching feeling that accompanies remembrance overwhelms her, nearly driving her back into the pool she’s just vacated. Sighing warily, Stella leaves the athletics complex, dawdling as she walks away from the one place she feels truly at home. There are no judgements in the water: if you can swim, you’re alright. Shivering slightly in the autumn air, Stella clutches her dad’s shirt closer to her, noting the tell-tale sign of tears threatening to escape her thus-far dry eyes. It’d been a long day, and sometimes, even a good swim couldn’t cure that.

She’s been walking for about half an hour when she feels the car pull up beside her. Panic clutches her heart as she realises that she hasn’t exactly taken many precautions to make herself safe. Despite her internal reaction, Stella’s face remains smooth – unconcerned. It does not do to display emotions – they are just a sign of vulnerability, after all. However, she notes the colouring on the car – the tell-tale white, blue and yellow – and realises that it’s just a cop car. Though not as much of a threat as a passing pervert, a cop car is just as dangerous to her anonymity – she is, after all, a missing person. Or, more accurately, she is a person in hiding _believed_ to be missing. Shaking her head, Stella looks away from the car and continues to walk slowly, ignoring its steady progression by her side.

“Stella? Stella Gibson?” it’s a female voice, one that seems oddly familiar yet difficult to place.

Stella looks away, her eyes turned firmly away from the car and its occupants. She doesn’t want to be dragged back there. She doesn’t want to go back to her aunt’s. Stella grits her teeth, grinding them quietly as she picks up her pace. There is some discussion within the car – loud enough that Stella is able to hear her name being said, but not so much that she can actually understand the context. Finally, the car pulls over, and a female police officer exits the vehicle while her partner waits in semi-darkness.

“Stella, I know it’s you.”

 _‘Shit.’_  “I’m sorry – you must have me confused with someone else,” attempts Stella, cringing at her own transparency as she quickens her pace. Like that would deter them.

She doesn’t account for the policewoman’s speed and miscalculates a footstep, leaving her sprawling on the pavement. Embarrassed, Stella gathers her belongings – few of them though there are – and attempts to stand. Before her, a hand reaches down, offering her help, if she’d only take it. Shrugging off the officer’s kindness, Stella stands and dusts herself off, making pointed eye contact now as she glares at the policewoman.

“Look, Stella, your aunt’s worried – _go home._ ”

“That’s not my home, and I’m not going back,” responds Stella somewhat churlishly. She’s aware that she sounds childish, but if it means that some doubt is cast unto her aunt (and the idiot she’s been forced to call _uncle_ ) – if it means that she can finally have her independence back – she’ll take it.

“Stella,” coaxes the officer, “I have to take you back there – you’re a minor, and you can’t be left on the streets. Now, if you’d actually get Social Services involved…”

“No. Fine, whatever. Take me back to my aunt’s.” Stella’s expression is mulish yet resolute – she’d rather be back with her aunt than in foster care; that much is certain. At least with her aunt there’s the viable option of escape with little care for her return. At least she has the opportunity to swim when her aunt isn’t paying attention.

“Good, Stella. I’m glad, you’re making the right decision,” smiles the policewoman kindly, feeling her heart clench at the sight of the weary and helpless look that seems to flash across Stella’s features for the briefest of seconds before being sealed off behind the mask of stoicism the teenager seems to wear so well. Someday, she’ll help the girl.

“Right,” she replies with the faintest hint of boredom in her tone, “Look, I have a test at school tomorrow, so if you’re planning on hand-delivering me, can we get this over with?” Stella is somewhat rude in her delivery of the statement, but it has the intended effect. Within minutes, she is securely strapped in to the police car and heading back to her aunt’s with an armed escort.

Shit.


	4. Sixteen, Redux

She shudders violently, her breath forming mist in the cold night air. Tears bead in the corners of her eyes as she holds her side, squeezing as she attempts to stem the pain. Her hand is warm and sticky, and she blanches at the realisation that she’s going to have to go to the hospital for this. If she even makes it that far. Cringing at her fatalistic outlook, Stella gives up on her stoicism. For the first time in two years, she allows herself to cry, heaving aching sobs that wrack her slim frame. Her eyes shut briefly, and she allows her tears to fall; after all, there’s no one here to observe her vulnerability. She misses her father, hates her mother and desperately yearns for the life she had three years ago. Shivers travel down the length of her spine again and her extremities become numb with cold and shock. Still, she doesn’t cry out for help. She’s stubborn in her belief that she’s strong enough to make it alone.

“Stella Gibson?”

It’s the same voice, the same maternal intonation that delivered the news _that night_. Stella looks up into the torch’s bright beam, unable to shield her eyes from its burning glare.

“Shit – you’re bleeding! What happened?”

Without preamble, the police officer’s hands replace Stella’s, applying pressure to the wound as she calls in the incident over the radio, requesting medical attention.

“Some guy came at me – he had a knife,” she groans, omitting most of the truth as she turns her face towards the officer’s gratefully. At the same time, she is chagrined that she’s allowed herself to be so vulnerable in front of another.

“We’ve been looking for you for quite some time, Stella,” says the officer quietly, by way of distracting the sixteen year old. Stella can detect a hint of maternal scolding in her tone, but it’s mostly relief that she can hear. Unsure of what to make of her observations (and frankly too tired to care, anyway), Stella remains silent. Meanwhile, the officer’s full concentration is on assessing and pressurising the wound in Stella’s side; though it doesn’t seem particularly threatening, it’s certainly a bleeder. Glancing back up at Stella’s pale face, her eyes soften maternally at the sight of the trembling girl’s terrified features. “You’re going to be fine, Stella,” she murmurs reassuringly.

Groaning heavily, Stella nods in assent, shutting her eyes instead of responding verbally. She can’t quite believe the situation she’s gotten herself into. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been walking the straight and narrow for a while, but she’d made sure that she was in school every day, and that she was always in a safe place to sleep by night. This particular _predicament_ that she’d somehow become embroiled in surprised her, not least because she’d never really gotten involved before. Then again, she’d never had someone to protect, before. Though it looks like her effort had been for nought anyway, as she’d run off the minute Stella had taken the blow.

Exhaling deeply, Stella allows herself to feel comfortable in the presence of this officer, the person who’d almost been following her – caring for her - in a way that none of her family had this past year. Stella has lost count of how many times this particular police officer has dragged her back home. _‘Though home is really quite subjective’_ she muses, as she wouldn’t consider being in the hands of her uncle a particular facet of any ‘home’. Still, she’d been able to get away from them for a while, this time. She’d been doing okay, though Stella now questions whether she’d been doing it alone at all, considering how frequently this police officer seemed to be close at hand. The thought warms her, and despite the pain in her side, she’s glad that someone has been looking out for her, even if she does value her independence. Her thoughts dwell on the officer beside her and miraculously her breaths slow until she drifts off uncomfortably, still thinking about the policewoman who’d undoubtedly say that she’s just been ‘doing her job’.

Stella wakes in a hospital bed, hooked to an IV and ensconced in pillows and blankets – luxuries she hasn’t had for months. Nestling further into the pillows, Stella heaves herself upright, groaning at the pulling sensation in her side. Glaring blearily about her, she observes the movements of everyone around her, waiting for the other shoe to drop – for her aunt to find her and force her back into her home (back to _him_ ). Instead, the officer who found her in the alley is dozing beside her bed, with another posted at the door. Glancing at the officer’s still frame, Stella smiles minutely – a sign of her gratitude towards the officer who’d obviously stayed the night with her. She watches her briefly, allowing her mind to drift aimlessly.

However, it does not take long for her to realise that this was a bad decision, as idleness allows her to consider everything she’d been repressing for the last year: her father’s suicide, her mother’s abandonment, and everything she’d been forced to deal with at her uncle’s hand. Soon, she feels as though she might drown in her own emotions, and begins plucking at her IV and the multitude of tubes that seem to be attached to her – attempting to detach herself and make a run for it, again. Observing her, the policewoman remains quiet, waiting for Stella to give up, but she is earnest in her attempt, and before long she has to intervene before Stella hurts herself.

“Where do you think you’re going, Stella?” she asks disapprovingly, her voice adopting an almost matronly lilt.

“I can’t stay – I can’t go back to-” Stella chokes as she replies, her mouth moving soundlessly as she attempts to stifle her tears whilst finishing her sentence. Eventually, she gives up, breaking down into heaving sobs, much to the surprise of the policewoman, who had witnessed Stella’s stoicism almost two years prior.

“Can’t go back to what, love?” she asks quietly, brushing Stella’s hair away from her face gently.

Stella retracts from the gesture of affection, pulling herself into a tight ball away from the hand’s soothing motions. “I can’t go back to my aunt’s,” she replies dully, her eyes slowly drying up.

“I know you can’t, not yet, anyway. You’ve got to stay here for quite some time, I’m afraid,” she responds easily, winking slyly at Stella as she finishes.

“What’s the catch?” asks Stella suspiciously.

“You tell me why you’ve run away.”

“No.”

“Fine, then I want to know if you’ve seen anyone since your dad… I mean, have you talked to anyone about it?” she asks with concern.

“No. There’s no point – nothing will change what happened:  what _will_ happen if I go back.”

“It might change how you feel about it, though. It might help you,” she coaxes quietly.

“I don’t think I can take advice from someone whose name I don’t know,” Stella responds unexpectedly, her tone petulant, “especially since you seem to know so much about me.”

“Trish,” she replies easily, unfazed by Stella’s rather juvenile tactics, “and you’re avoiding the issue,” she points out.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about my personal life with a stranger,” Stella bursts out, “and maybe I don’t want to go back to my aunt’s because she’s a perfect fucking bitch to me!” It’s childish and only half the reason, but Stella knows that to give away the truth would be as much an admission of her own vulnerability as of her uncle’s actions towards her. To reveal the latter would be a death sentence – the former equally dangerous.

“How so?” her question is meditative; non-judgemental despite Stella’s use of expletives.

“She punishes me for being his daughter – blames me for my mother’s infidelity, like I’m the root of my family’s trouble, and now I’ve gotten myself lumped on her! It’s not like I can help it though,” her lip trembles at the thought of her father’s death. Suddenly she becomes fidgety like she had been before, tugging on her IV and fiddling with her sheets. Her mind is whirring, self-hatred threatening to choke her again. Her uncle wouldn’t do what he does to her if she weren’t the girl her aunt says she is. She deserves this.

 Trish lays her hands over Stella’s, stopping her from hurting herself even more than she already has. Once she’s sure that Stella is not going to try anything, she tugs a slim elastic band from her hair and places it gently on Stella’s delicate wrist.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you, Stella,” she cautions quietly, “but, I do know that you need an outlet.” She remains quiet for a spell, allowing Stella to calm down a bit more before she continues, holding the teenager’s slim wrist between her warm palms as she does. “I know you swim, and I know that you’re pretty good at bottling everything up – don’t give me that look,” she reacts to the mulish expression on Stella’s face at what she perceives to be condescension, “but when you need some…relief, and when you’re not in a situation where you can just run, this might help you.” Demonstrating the action as softly as she can, Trish snaps the band against Stella’s wrist, fearful of hurting the girl. They remain quiet for a beat, before Trish snaps the band again, smiling kindly at Stella as she murmurs, “no one else need know what the band is for – you can just pluck the band as many times as it takes for you to feel okay.” Trish regards Stella silently, encouragingly, waiting for some response. Instead, all she gets is a series of successive snaps, then a small quirk of Stella’s lips as she realises that yes, the pain is a good distraction from her emotional turmoil.

_Snap. Snap. Snap._


	5. Present

They’d been sitting in relative silence for a while now; their only interruption the ticking of the clock and Annie’s occasional sniffling. Stella is patient with her – she knows what it’s like to be on the other side of this interview, and so she waits. She asks questions, delicately, quietly – but she doesn’t push. Despite her sympathy for the younger woman sitting in front of her, Stella is still guarded – still shields her emotions. It would not do for Ms. Brawley to see the pain that had been etched on Stella’s face at the sight of her broken body, a visual reminder presented to her only hours before the interview. No, it would not do at all. Instead, Stella sits calmly – coldly, even -accessible only to Annie by the warmth in her tone, the caring lilt in her melodious questioning. She does care, but she’s not about to advertise it – not when it seems that her attacker has disappeared and could possibly strike again anywhere. Tears fall from Annie’s face, gently hitting the white sheets of her hospital bed as she fingers the marks on her wrists – the angry purple bruises caused by the ligatures used on her by her would-be killer. Stella feels her heart clench, but she doesn’t act on it, attempting instead to pursue an alternate avenue of questioning.

_“If you were…on the other side of your bedroom, standing by the window, what would you have seen?”_

She thinks to herself that maybe Annie’s like her – maybe she needs some modicum of detachment to view the situation subjectively enough to talk about it. Very briefly, this tactic seems to work, for Annie is talking again, at least. But the cognitive interview process is slow, and she knows that Annie will probably tire – is already tired – before they can complete their interview. Her eyes are already swimming with tears again and her breath shaking, and Stella’s heart aches with the sound. She wishes for all the world that she and the PSNI had a better lead – as if by some miracle she could’ve saved Annie from all of this. Still, better alive and scarred than dead and posed.  She shuts down her previous train of thought mechanically, focusing in again on Annie’s statement, coldly assessing the facts of her recount while she attempts to leave her emotions behind her. Such is her way, when the case _truly_ gets to her.

Prodding Annie with a quiet, “What else?”, Stella sits back and allows Annie to talk freely – needing more details but not wanting to push her to her breaking point. She maintains a stoic expression; stoic but accessible. Stella realises that for her to build rapport with Annie, she needs to drop some of her façade, and she does so accordingly. Prompting her with quiet, meditative questions, Stella continues to listen supportively, noting down the details that Annie can recall from her attack. Observing Annie’s attitude, Stella can see that she’s nearing her breaking point - before she’d at least been able to form some kind of phrase, but now her voice breaks as she chokes down her tears, desperately trying to be the strong witness that Stella needs. But Stella isn’t concerned with Annie as a witness – not for the time being, anyway. Right now, she’s concerned _for_ Annie as a victim; a survivor. She’s been on the other side of this interview, and Stella makes sure to be every bit as delicate as Trish had been with her.

Taking the interview back a notch, Stella tries to reassure Annie – to anchor her back in the present as memories of the not-too-distant past threaten to drown her. She asks her about the happier memories of the evening; her dinner with her brother just prior to coming home - but Annie’s already lost to her emotions and is now a shuddering wreck. Stella’s can feel the anguish behind Annie’s words– she feels her pain as keenly as she’d felt her own, all those years ago. It takes a steadying breath for her to be able to approach Annie, and much as she’d like to envelope her in a reassuring, steadying hug, she suppresses the desire. It wouldn’t be professional – it wouldn’t help her efforts to repress her own emotions, to allay her fears about their as yet-unknown assailant. It would only encourage her to indulge; a facet of her character that she very rarely allows out to play.

Standing beside Annie, feeling her choked sobs thundering through her body, Stella hesitates. She desperately wants to comfort Annie – something maternal in her wants to comfort her the way her brother might’ve, had he survived. Stella wants to protect her beyond the scope of her professional abilities – she wants to be a comfort, a friend to Annie. As soon as the desire appears, Stella tamps it down – isolating and compartmentalising the emotion into oblivion. It would not do well for her to be feeling like this. Instead, Stella reaches for the bottom band of Annie’s braid, pulling it gently from her silky dark hair with her thumb and forefinger, moving slowly so as not to startle the sobbing woman.

_“Once upon a time, this worked for me. You snap the band on your wrist when your thoughts overwhelm you.”_

Snapping the band against Annie’s wrist gently in demonstration, Stella realises that she could use a band herself, right now. But she’d given up that crutch a long time ago, resorting instead to allowing herself release through more physically taxing means. Sex was good, but required forethought and the emotional and physical needs to be present as well. Drinking was good as it took care of the mental, but didn’t do much to exhaust the emotional energy that usually becomes pent up in her after a stressful day. Exhaling slowly, quietly, Stella allows herself to feel sympathy for the young woman whose eyes look up at hers so trustingly, even after everything she’s been through. Her heart aches for the woman, but her body aches for the unforgiving depths of the hotel pool – the only avenue she can turn to, to relieve herself from the physical and emotional strain that seems to be close to overwhelming her. Returning back to her chair, she leaves Annie with the smallest of smiles, a reassurance that she’ll be okay, eventually.  

_Pluck. Pluck. Snap._

The familiar sound fills the air, and Stella thinks that she may have finally done something right with Annie – she’s given her a means of distracting herself as she talks. It hurts, particularly as it snaps back against her bruised wrists, but the pain is good. The pain is external – a distraction from the internal roiling of emotions that she can barely control. Stella watches the band – its motion and vibration with each pluck and snap – pensively, recalling her own introduction to the band at sixteen. It had helped her then; it had gotten her through some very difficult times. She hopes it will do the same for Annie, now.

* * *

 

_Snap. Snap. Snap._

She’s a practised expert at this. Sighing heavily, she allows herself to be lost in the pain – the redness that’s beginning to rise on the surface of her wrist. Stella sits at her desk in her office, her hands under the table as she reads and re-reads the report on Annie Brawley, having finally given in to her need for a physical distraction. The band hits her wrist with aching familiarity, meeting her tattoo again and again as she continues to snap the band. The tattoo that was supposed to be the ultimate pain; a form of external pain so great that it would distract her altogether from the emotional, even for a little while.

_Snap._

She’d get through this. She’d find the bastard and nail him by the balls to his conviction.

_Snap._

Stella is strong enough to take anything he throws her way.

_Snap._

He will die.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed it! If you have, please leave a review :)


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